


...As We Know It

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Greg Lestrade, Endings, Gen, Greg Lestrade and Technology, Mycroft To The Rescue, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 21:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16354781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: Working through a prompt list and the next is, "Is this the end? After everything we've been through?" But you know what I'm like.





	...As We Know It

“Is this the end? After everything we’ve been through?” Greg asked.

Mycroft glanced up at him, wild-eyed.

Greg caught the movement and looked up from the table. “What?”

Mycroft smiled, then began to laugh.

Greg stared for a moment, thought about it, then rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. But it’s bloody disappointing.”

Mycroft calmed a bit, and began collecting the neatly bundled cables. “Gregory, we have established that your IT department is a travesty. The fact that they simply throw adaptors and power cables into a cupboard, lock the door, and lose the key is simply the latest in a saga of failure and woe. Philip Anderson, for all his many flaws, was at least an organised imbecile.”

“He was forensics, not IT,” Greg snapped. “I’ve never known _anyone_ in IT long enough to remember a name.”

“Another sign that something needs to change. Either you can’t keep personnel because they know a horror story when they see one, or you need to try putting someone from outside the field in charge. After all, they don’t need to know anything about computers to at least organise a closet.”

“I take it back—wasn’t Jim Moriarty in IT?”

Mycroft pursed his lips and glared.

“What? Had to be pretty organised, running that empire, didn’t he? Organised crime, right?”

“You’ll find he’s rather dead.”

“Matches the batteries in every hand-held in there,” Greg sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the collection of electronic accessories on the conference table. “Yeah, maybe forensics would be a better match here. I’ve never even seen these… what did you call them?”

“Dongles.”

“And you’re still not kidding?”

“No.”

“You just hate me making you say it, don’t you?” Greg said, beginning to grin.

“Happily, much of the English language is not my fault,” Mycroft said, suddenly brisk. “Now. Whichever… _hyena_ jammed that micro USB into the type A,” he said, leaning one elbow on the table and flicking a long finger at the two cord ends Greg still held, “needs a lobotomy. It’ll be cheaper to replace it than to fix it, but you must promise me that you will use a great deal of violence to combine those with the innards of the idiot responsible. If that word is even appropriate. I feel there should be something stronger to describe the complete lack of interest in one’s employment speciality and the creative, malign approach to detailed destruction.”

“If I can find out who did it,” Greg said, willing but uncertain if he was able.

Mycroft pressed his lips into a firm line and turned his wrist so his palm was up. Greg handed him the damaged cords. Mycroft peered at the ends, tipping them back and forth, examined the lengths of plastic-coated wire, sniffed them, touched several places delicately against the tip of his tongue, and said, “Male, unsurprisingly. Rather…hairy. Dark hair, but not of Afro-Caribbean descent. Probably Mideast. Slender fingers, for a man, drinks Fruit Twist Fanta and one of those chemically-flavoured maize-based snacks, garlic…Cool Original Doritos, at a guess.”

“Stop there—that was Vural Suri. Quit after a few months.”

“Mixed blessing. Thwarted vengeance.”

“Yeah, shame. Donovan would’ve cheered you on. Always complained that her phone stank whenever he had to unlock it for her.”

“Well.” Mycroft set his hands against the edge of the table. “Would you like another crack at him, or shall I?”

“My phone’s still dead,” Greg said, waving the dark lump of glass and metal. “Remember? That’s why we came out here.”

“Me, then.” Mycroft got to his feet, hooking his suit jacket off the back of the chair with a finger and swinging it around behind him, slipping his arms in and shrugging it up to his shoulders in a single, fluid movement. “He’s right on the edge of breaking, you do realise.”

“Yeah, you said. But you’re scarier than I am.”

“You’re coming along nicely. You’re sure you don’t want the honour?”

Greg waved him ahead down the hallway toward the interrogation rooms. “Nah. I think I’ve done more of these than you get to, but I can always stand to learn a few more tricks.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> It was going to be called "The End," but then I got "It's the End of the World as We Know It" stuck in my head, and that seemed funnier. Or at least less boring. I could be wrong.


End file.
